


Given the Choice

by ravengabrielle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Marriage, Other, POV Hermione Granger, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Post-Hogwarts, Single Parents, hidden pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravengabrielle/pseuds/ravengabrielle
Summary: It has been three years since Hermione has seen her ex-boyfriend, Draco Malfoy. When fate has them cross paths at a Quidditch match, there is a bit of a shock in store for the wizard. She is faced with the truth of their past and what their future should be.A dramione story. Rated: not mature. ONESHOT, Epilogue complete.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley
Comments: 15
Kudos: 147
Collections: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, Dramione, Harry Potter Fic





	1. Chapter 1

“Let’s get a move on, baby. Don’t want to miss the match.”  
A little brunette waddled in through the doorway. Her red and white polka dot tights covered her chubby thighs, cute black shoes with shiny silver buttons, a frilly skirt with a sensible top of Gryffindor red. She wore a bright red barrette in her curls to hold back the bothersome bangs that fell into her eyes every other minute.  
She wore a toothy smile. A toy dragon stuffed beneath her arm.  
“You excited to see Uncle Ron and Harry?” Hermione put her hands on her knees, adorned in the beautiful light of her daughter, and smiled. “A day at a Quidditch match sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”  
“Uncle Won,” Althea repeated.  
Ronald Weasley was her favorite person in the whole world. He was the one wizard who Althea saw most of all. The red head helped as Hermione healed post-partum and was too exhausted to shower. He tended Althea and tidied the flat and helped her recovery until she was back to normal.  
Hermione Granger pulled her hair into a knot. She wound a scarf around her neck, delicious browns with a mustard yellow tunic and dark chocolate leggings. Her mild-calf boots were brown, too. The perfect outfit for an autumn match of Quidditch at an obscure park outside of London.  
It was a local league that a few friends from Hogwarts joined. Harry and Ron were tasked with taking their own two children out as a break to their mothers. Ginny needed a break from just giving birth to their second child, Albus. Ronald had a son about a year after Hermione gave birth to Althea with Lavender Brown. Jareth Weasley was a handful that left his mother often exhausted. It only made sense since his full name was Jareth Frederick Weasley.  
The two Granger girls loaded into their auto. Althea never resisted being buckled in the child’s seat.  
Hermione handed her a sparkly pink cup. “Here is your water.”  
“Thanks mummy,” the little girl said.  
“You’re welcome, baby.”  
Becoming a mother had changed Hermione’s entire life. It was not easy to assume the role of being a single parent in a world that greatly despised the idea of sexual relations without the confines of marriage. Her parents supported her, though she felt their disappointment in her condition. The muggle world once again became her home to bear out her pregnancy.  
Hermione was a celebrity in the wizarding world. She was best friend to Harry Potter, the only one ever to survive the death curse. Creating a life inside whilst under the pressures of publications and pictures and leering eyes of the world was not acceptable. The stress risked both their lives.  
So, she stepped away from the magical community for a while. Only the closest of her friends learned the truth. They visited in private. First at her parent’s house, then at her own flat that she acquired two months before she went into labor.  
“Mum, will Won take me on his broom?” A voice peeped from the backseat.  
She looked in the rearview mirror. “This isn’t a Weasley game, baby. Uncle Ron won’t have his broom. He’ll have Jareth though.”  
The girl wrinkled her nose. “He’s so naughty.”  
“I know he is, but you were like that too at that age.”  
“I was naughty?” The girl gasped.  
“Well…” She took a breath. “Not exactly. You were very well behaved. But James was naughty, too. Some babies are like that. And that’s okay. They learn better eventually.” Godric, she hoped. Otherwise Jareth was going to be another Fred and George, a fact that daunted the Weasley family. One was enough. George’s son, Fred, was a clone of the late twin only twice as bad. “At least James is fun. Isn’t he?”  
She felt the car sway as her child swung her legs back and forth in her seat. The little chipper voice sang along with the music that played through the speakers.  
“Yeah,” was the only answer Hermione received.  
They left London. The auto moved through traffic lanes. It was not too far out of the city, thank Merlin, since her daughter’s bladder was the size of a teaspoon. They arrived as the grassy field in the middle of nowhere just as Althea squeezed her legs together.  
“Should we go potty first?” Hermione asked.  
The girl slipped her arms through a red jumper. The tulle of her skirt blew in the gentle wind.  
“No.”  
“Are you certain? Because once we get up there, we might be stuck for a while.”  
Even though the little girl shook her head, her legs danced around, knees pressed together in what was generally known as the potty dance. A child did it when they really did not want to go to the loo but really needed to. Hermione sighed. It was a hassle to climb through the stands just to have the descend again with a whining child nearly ready to burst in her knickers.  
The loos were off to the side. Their charm a little shimmer in the late morning light.  
“Come on, you.” She held her daughter’s hand.  
They used the toilet and just exited the stall as Harry and Ron pulled up in their shared ride. A pair of excited legs rushed up to Althea. A dark-haired boy smiled. His green and gold jumper the hue of his own mother’s Quidditch team. Their little arms outstretched and joined in a taut embrace. James was a hair taller. He pulled the girl’s feet off the ground in his excitement.  
Harry stepped from the car to shout, “Give her some time to breathe, son. She’s not a toy.”  
James loosened his hold on Althea. Her little black shoes dropped down to the dirt with a soft ‘oof’.  
“Sorry,” the boy mumbled.  
“That’s alright,” Althea answered.  
There were not many spaces for muggle vehicles in the field. Most wizards and witches apparated to the space. Few lived in muggle society enough to even own a car, let alone drive one.  
“Morning, Mione!” Ron waved. There was a small red-headed boy in his arms. One of the hands was clasped in his father’s hair. Every step had Ron wincing. “Thea! Look at you. You’ve grown.”  
The girl giggled. “I have?”  
“You’ve shot up like a weed.”  
“I am not a weed.” The girl wrinkled her nose.  
Hermione chuckled. “Good morning, Ron. Morning, Jareth.”  
“Ready for a spot of Quidditch everyone?” Harry asked.  
“I have to go potty!” James shouted.  
“Pee,” added James.  
Harry and Ron tilted their heads back and groaned. The girls waited outside for the party of boy’s to exit the toilet stalls.  
“Mummy, where is the Quidditch match?”  
“Over there.” Hermione pointed.  
“I don’t see it.” Althea squinted against the sunlight.  
The poor child was not accustomed to the magical world. She was just introduced to her mother’s magic, and the life of wizards in London was still a new concept for her mind to grasp.  
“That’s because it is charmed to look like an open field, baby.”  
“Why?”  
“So that people don’t see them flying,” Hermione explained. “Remember, how we can’t talk about magic with people who aren’t wizards and witches? It is not safe. Some people, like Grandma and Paw-Paw, would be scared of magic. We have to hide our powers from them, so they don’t try to hurt us.”  
“Is that why we hide from my daddy?” A pair of storm grey eyes looked up at her mother with question. The growing need to understand why there was only two of them, and three in other families was at the forefront of the young child’s mind. She did not understand why they missed a piece. “Is he scared of us?”  
A shout came from within the loo. It was Ronald, yelling his son’s name. “Jareth! Jareth, you put that bog roll down. Down now. No, no! Don’t bite it. Eh, you mind me. Mind my - . Oh, Jareth!”  
It was common enough that Hermione was not alarmed. Hermione dipped down to her daughter’s level. She wrapped her arms around the girl’s body, pulling her in close for a hug. “You know I love you very much, Althea. You’re my whole world.”  
“I love you mummy.”  
She cuddled her face against Hermione’s cheek, just as she’d done as an infant looking for Hermione’s breast. It was so sweet. It warmed Hermione’s heart then same as it did now.  
They would always be a pair. Just the two of them against the world.  
“I used to love your father just the same. With my whole heart,” Hermione explained. “But sometimes, mommies and daddies don’t work like that. Things are not so easy. And well, that is how things are sometimes. But you have me, and Uncle Ron, and Uncle Harry, and Aunt Ginny and Lavender and James and Albus and Jareth to keep you company.”  
“I like Uncle Won,” Althea admitted.  
“I know you do.”  
“He can be my daddy, can’t he?”  
The innocence in the girl’s tone was too precious to break. That was best saved for another time.  
Hermione raised. “That is something you have to ask him. But even if he is not your dad, he can still be Uncle Ron.”  
Harry emerged the loo with James toddling behind him. Ron followed, a climbing, howling Jareth attached to him. Loo paper all over the pair of them. His eyes were dull from exhaustion. “I need a bloody pint.”  
They marched up through the long grasses of the field. It was a very convincing charm over the hidden Quidditch Pitch. There were the faint calls of birds on the wind. Overgrown grass with cattails above their greenery. A morning sky of orange and faint blue stretched in endless hue.  
Althea gave several unconvinced looks at the field. Her face wrought with suspicion. It was very much the same expression her father gave. She did not really resemble him much. Hermione and Althea were close to twins, apart from her daughter’s pale eyes. It was occasionally that a true sharp, unimpressed face came forth that Hermione realized just how much of him was in there.  
James bounded through the grass. He urged Althea forward with excitement. The entrance to the charm was just beyond his fingertips.  
As the two held hands in the dense foliage to fight off the grasses taller than they were, Harry ducked back in line with Hermione. He scratched the back of his head. “Uh, Hermione?”  
“Yeah?” She asked.  
“You know I heard that he is back in town,” Harry said.  
She nodded. It was a discussion she knew was sure to come but was not ready to have.  
“I know.”  
“He’s applied for a position within the Ministry.”  
That was news. Her brows leapt to her hairline. “The Ministry?”  
Harry nodded in confirmation. It unsettled her stomach. That was not welcome news.  
“What department?” Hermione inquired.  
When he came back to London, she expected there to be some places she would avoid. There were favorite joints of his. Out of respect, she would not ever frequent. But the Ministry? It was so close to her life. Harry and Ron worked in the Ministry. It was all too likely that her secret might be discovered with a bunch of people gathered around like that, working closely, speaking of their daily lives. Ronald and Harry were her best friends. Stories of her and her daughter were bound to be mentioned one time or another.  
Her hands shook. She held them mid-air and watched as her anxiety manifested in a bodily response.  
Hermione’s face fell. She did not expect to be so moved by the idea of him. They broke up ages ago. There was no reason he should have any impact on her life any longer. Of course, the soft water that filled her eyes and clouded her vision said otherwise. The tears were restrained with the fighting pride of that of a Gryffindor.  
“He wants to be an Auror.”  
She gasped. “An Auror? Why in the bloody hell would he want to do that?”  
Harry shrugged. “Gee, Hermione. I don’t know. I thought he wanted to be a potioneer or something.”  
“So did I,” she answered. “The Ministry was the last thing on his list of things he wanted.”  
“Things change. People change.”  
His green eyes gave her that look. A look that she hated to receive. The push of hope thoughtlessly given from the faces of friends, that slow poison meant to permeate some hardened resolve to be difficult rather than the last bit of strength before her heartbreak exposed. It was their helpful attempt that stabbed deeper through her insides.  
Hermione Granger was the only single witch mother that she knew, or ever heard of. It was a taboo thing within the community. Dirty, needed to be hidden. Though she knew her friends supported her no matter what, she felt their pitiful gazes at her like she was something so pathetic. The culture of the wizarding world seeped deeper than their respect for her. And that hurt.  
Her forehead wrinkled with a dirty expression. “I know what you’re hinting at Harry and I don’t like it.”  
“I’m just talking to my best friend,” he said. “Discussing. I want what’s best for you and Althea. I love you both dearly. And I also know that he’d come running back if you told him the truth. Things would be the way they were, before.”  
“Before we were children. In school.”  
“No, Ron and Lavender were children in school then. They fought every other week about another person looking at whichever, crying and being together the next minute. That’s children shite. But you? You were mature. You had plans, goals. There was a similar future you both wanted, together. Althea would have sealed that together. You could have gotten the life you wanted if you just told him.”  
She sighed. It was supposed to be a fun outing with their children. They were there to get spend time together and give their partners a break. So far, it was not worth the drive out.  
Her arms laced across her chest as she trudged through the last remaining meter of long wild grass. “I’d really like to enjoy the match. Can we at least do that?”  
Harry adjusted the round glasses atop his nose. “You’re right. Come on. Let’s get the family together to our seats.”  
Their two rascals stood at the edge of the ward with Ron alongside of them. Just beyond the reach of invisibility was an entire Quidditch Pitch, cheering stands, spectators. James waved his father forward. “Come on,” he called out. Harry laughed. His pace quickened as he joined his son.  
Althea’s hand was in her Uncle Ron’s. Her legs jiggled as she waited. The excitement in her little body was fighting against the stillness.  
Hermione ran her fingers through the brown curls. “Are you ready?”  
The little girl squinted. Her little pale eyes strained as she looked.  
“I don’t see anything,” she finally said.  
Ron laughed. “That’s because we’re not inside yet.”  
A whistle of a songbird flew overhead. It was the only sound through the emptiness of the countryside.  
“That’ll be the signal,” Harry said.  
Each of them grabbed hold of their child’s hand. The reach of the charm was a step ahead of their feet. Just as their feet raised to step through, children in tow, Jareth managed to escape from Ron’s hold and bolted the other direction. His little legs moved just as fast as they could.  
Harry, James, Hermione, and Althea were inside the charm. They were able to watch Ronald and Jareth run through the grass while absorbed by the busy sounds of the Quidditch Pitch. It felt busier than usual.  
Hermione warranted a look around. The Pitch, of normal size but nothing like the professional leagues, was packed with cheering crowds. There were vendors of treats. Their little melodies of their treats fought against the general sound of an audience.  
It was as if every wizard in London was there in the stands. She gawked.  
The league was not popular. They attended games because of Angelina, who played in the league to break the monotony of being a housewife, not because of their can’t-miss events. Often, there was barely enough for a cheering section, let alone vendors.  
Crowds were overwhelming for children. They wouldn’t have chosen a child’s outing if they’d known how busy it was bound to be.  
“Bloody hell.” Ron stated as he emerged through the charm. “What the hell’s happened?”  
“I don’t know. Perhaps they’ve finally been recognized by their talent?” She posed the hopeful question as a polite mannerism rather than an honest statement.  
Quidditch was a brutal game. It was so popular for spectators because of the commonplace acquisition of injuries mid-game. The league which was set to play was far more courteous. Every player had a family to return home to, chores to do, jobs to perform. Their backs were already stiff, no need to make them stiffer by a jostling on a broom during a friendly match.  
Harry went first through the crowd. He looked at the ticket in his hands to find their assigned seats, which had never mattered in any previous game, but it was clear that those would be the only seats open. Hermione held onto James and Althea’s hands as they navigated the crowd. Their two little bodies were surrounded by adults on every side, casted in their long shadows.  
Ronald carried his son on his shoulders. Two fists were locked in his hair. Jareth, though, looked content above the crowd. It was best that they were comforted as best they could be. The scarier it was, the less fun the entire day would be. There was no point in giving their mother’s a break if they returned exhausted and frightened.  
“Thea,” she heard James mutter. “Hold my hand.”  
“I can’t. Mummy’s got both my hands.”  
Hermione frowned. “It’s okay, James. We’re almost there. I see an open spot ahead.”  
Sure enough, Harry pointed down to the empty seats at his feet. When he was spotted by his son, James pulled from Hermione’s hold and ran to him. Althea, too, struggled against the hand holding. Around the boys, she was a whirlwind. She followed them wherever they went, not unlike the way Hermione used to with her friends.  
She smiled as she watched James wrap Althea into a hug. Their two little bodies so excited to be at a game. It was the event of the month. They had anticipated the outing and made extra effort to remain good enough to attend.  
“Aren’t you glad we bought seats for them?” Harry said.  
She was equally baffled by the crowd. “I’m so glad you overruled me. It’s a madhouse. What do you imagine has happened?”  
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”  
They waited for their friend to emerge from the sea of people. It was easy to spot since Jareth sat atop his shoulders as a beacon. The little red-headed boy bounced through the people until finally a small part came through.  
Out popped their friend with a red face. “Bloody hell.”  
“I know,” Harry said. He offered his hands upward toward the little boy. Jareth was perfectly content pulling his father’s hairs out until the wizard was bald, but he thrust his arms forward and fell right into Harry’s open arms. “Whoa, there. You might’ve kissed the pavement.”  
“You know he’s not afraid of a thing,” Ron commented.  
He took his son from Harry’s arms. The moment they reunited, Jareth leaned against his father’s shoulder and started to chew against Ron’s shirt. It instantly soaked with the flood of salvia. The two top teeth shined in the light of his pink gums, still yet to be torn through with other teeth.  
Ron recoiled. “Ugh. I need a pint. This kid’s going to be the death of me.”  
“I could use one too,” Harry said as he rubbed his temples.  
She knew that stress.  
“Albus not sleeping?”  
“He’s out of sorts. Days he sleeps, nights he’s awake. Ginny can barely function.”  
“Lucky Mum took Albus for the day,” Ron said.  
“I know. Otherwise today would have been a waste.”  
The boys decided upon their need for a stout being essential. Their children were the light of their lives, but they were exhausting to be lit up all the time. Hermione declined alcohol. It was a nasty habit in which losing control was the object.  
She took a seat between the little kids. Jareth sat on her lap. His hand latched onto her necklace and yanked as hard as he could. The metal felt as though it sliced through her flesh without breaking the surface.  
Althea and James sat next to one another. They pointed to the players on their brooms. It was warmups before the match. All the players flew around the Pitch, passed the Quaffle around a bit, and stretched out their limbs.  
The hum of the crowd was steady as time for the start neared. It was an excitement she couldn’t understand. She looked around and spotted many people she knew from Hogwarts. Some were older. Some, younger.  
Jareth was a boy who smiled so much for how mischievous he was. His two teeth formed a goofy grin that warmed her heart. There was no desire to get pregnant for the sake of having another child, but Hermione toyed with the idea of having a second child. Althea was so patient and kind. And it would be lovely to have another to experience the beauty of their infancy all over again. That time in her life was stressful and exhausting with Althea. It was all so new. If she had another, she knew to appreciate it more.  
Time flew so quick.  
She remembered a time when Althea was very young, and James was only a few months older. All their times as friends spent together was to coo over their small children. Things were difficult for her as a single mother, but Harry and Ginny were newly married at that point. Ginny had just graduated Hogwarts not long before James was born. It was all a trying time in their lives.  
Ronald had been the only constant to hold them all together. He helped them all stay sane enough to survive.  
Lavender and Ron had been on one of their ‘breaks’ in their relationship. Ron was lonely. He focused upon his family and the new children within it. The light came to his eye to have so many new additions. His smile turned wide.  
It was not safe to say that he was a changed man, but he was moved enough to learn what he wanted.  
He was married not long after. Lavender decided to take the final plunge after having been together on and off for three years. It was long overdue. Jareth came along a year after James and Althea were born.  
Life was whole. They were all complete in their paths. Happy. Satisfied. Loved.  
“Hermione?” A voice asked from behind her.  
There behind her was a voice from her past. The long forgotten, totally done with past.  
Bleach blonde hair, long legs, a white collared shirt with the top button undone, a pair of grey knit trousers that hugged his frame. The shimmering studs in his ears almost outshined the brilliance of his pitch-black tattoos. The exposed forearms were coated in the dark designs. The back of his hands were inked through, as were the knuckles of his fingers.  
He was very different than she remembered him, yet all the same that she felt the comfort in his presence that alarmed her more than calmed her.  
She climbed from her seat, hiding the shaking palms behind her back. “Hello, Draco. Back in London, I see.”  
Her eyes glanced back at the child in the seat. Althea was next to James. The tips of her curls were just barely noticeable over the back of the seat. They were bent over a book about Quidditch that Hermione had brought to supplement the experience with education. It was more meant for Jareth since James and Althea knew Quidditch just as well as they knew how to walk, but the older two were more interested in looking at the pictures.  
She kept her breath even. Jareth hoisted up against her hip as she greeted the wizard like an old acquaintance she was happy to see rather than the sheer panic just below the surface.  
“Yeah, just got back three weeks ago,” he said. There was a plastic cup in his hand. She smelled the beer from inside it. The memory of him was strong. All his likes and dislikes flooded back to her mind in an unwelcome wave. “You here alone?”  
She shifted her weight away from him. “Harry and Ron are getting pints before the start. Brought the kids to watch Angelina play.”  
His attention ghosted over her shoulder to the other children she meant, since the one on her hip was the only one she was currently occupied with. Jareth kept grabbing at her necklace and scarf, squirming out of her hold and whining.  
“Potter and Weasley got busy after Hogwarts,” he commented.  
Tension mounted in her throat. Of course he thought all the children were Harry and Ron’s. They were the ones who married. She was single. It was impossible for her to be a mum.  
More than anything, she wanted him gone.  
“Yeah. I really should get back.” Her tone was full of taut politeness. It was not easy to feign a sense of propriety in public when everything in her life had went toward avoiding the man.  
Althea noticed the empty seat. She stood on little legs to scan through the crowd. Her eyes were wide with fear until she noticed her not too far behind.  
Hermione gave a soft smile. “Sit down so you don’t fall.”  
Just then, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley emerged through the crowd. Their mugs were a great pride in their grasp. A smile was in their expression as their lips sipped the brown liquid before they returned to their children. Of course it was split by surprise. Ron stopped short, beer sloshed over the rim and splattered against the ground.  
“Steady on there, Weasley.” Draco said. His hand removed from his pocket in a small wave.  
“Da!” Jareth pronounced. His arms stretched out to his father with a struggling reach.  
“Hey there, mate. Were you being nice to Aunt Mione?” Ronald asked in a cheerful tone.  
The depth of his patience was commend-worthy. He loved children. She thought it was his childish nature that made him understand them so closely.  
“Afternoon, Malfoy.” Harry thrust a polite smile. “Decided to take in a match, eh?”  
Relieved of the weight of Jareth’s body, Hermione was able to exhibit her nervous fidgets for her handsome, wealthy, successful ex-boyfriend to witness for the first time in nearly three years. A steady flow seeped from her oxter. The weight of importance rested with her perfume to cover the scent of her panic.  
Her eyes captured Ron’s with a subtle pleading. Draco had yet to address him. There was a chance he might not, if he snuck away with the children somewhere. The less Draco’s exposure to the three kids, the better. He might start to do mental math.  
She fanned herself with her open hand, one hand atop her hips as words of Harry and Draco’s masculine conversation drifted in earshot. There was talk of the match and how it was determined to be so popular. Harry explained that it was a quiet league. Never seen a day where so many were there at once. Draco revealed a broadcast had promoted the little league as a nice place to spend a quick minute watching without the hassle of a professional game where there were huge fees and lots of security.  
Ronald finished his mug. “Jar, get up on me shoulders. We’re going to see these brooms.”  
“Uncle Won! Won! I want to, too.” Althea hopped up in her excitement.  
Her voice carried through the wind. The sound was heard by Draco. Hermione watched the glance at the three kids around Ron in their needy swarm.  
The panic mounted.  
Ron knew Althea’s love of flying. A curiosity that Hermione hated to support. She disliked the idea that her own daughter might realize she was not gifted in everything as the young girl thought. Hermione was a nervous flyer, which interacted horrid with the broom.  
“Right. You, too, Thea. Hold on.” He thrust the empty mug toward Hermione. “You mind?”  
She shook her head, grateful to have him occupy Althea. Her hands gripped the glass as Ron tossed Jareth atop his shoulders and in his arms boasted the rigid form of her daughter just as tall as Jareth.  
“See ‘em, guys?” He asked.  
The two children were amazed by the view overhead. Players zipped by. The wind of the brooms whistled. Jareth giggled in hysterics. Both his hands raised up and attempted to catch the flyers.  
“What brought you back to London?” Harry asked.  
Hermione heightened her attention. Her eyes turned back to the conversation.  
“Astoria hated the distance to Bulgaria. Said she wanted us closer.” It was so casual. So casual to mention his girlfriend in front of Hermione. She blinked to retain composure. “I’m back in Wiltshire.”  
“What’ll you do?”  
Draco shrugged. That taut line of flesh against his Adam’s apple glinted in the sun. “I applied as an Auror at the Ministry. Thought it was worth a try. Never know. They might let a prat like me in.” Then to her horror, the slate grey eyes turned to her. “Where do you find yourself these days, Hermione?”  
She swallowed. “I’ve got a flat in the city.”  
“You like it?”  
“I do,” she answered back softly. “It’s close to restaurants and Diagon Alley so I don’t need to venture too far.”  
“I saw one of your books on Krum’s shelves. It looked brilliant.” Something flickered across his face. It was too quick to read, but she knew it was something. “Congratulations. Who’d have thought all that time in the library would have affected you so?”  
Swiftly she became rather aware of how often she gulped. And she could not stop doing it!  
Her heart raced, as did her thoughts.  
James Potter became her savior of distraction when he approached with a pouty bottom lip. Harry squinted.  
“Uh, oh. A sour face. What’s that for?” He questioned. His knees bent to meet his son face-to-face.  
“Thea is all the way up there.” The little finger pointed up to Ron, Althea and Jareth at the rail.  
The match had started. Hermione hadn’t noticed the starting whistle nor the disruption of the crowd noise.  
“Aw,” Draco exclaimed. “Miss your sister, do you? Odd. Thought brothers and sisters couldn’t stand each other.”  
None of them would know since Draco, Harry and Hermione were all only children.  
“She’s not my sister!” James exclaimed.  
Harry gave him a warning look. “Hush, James.”  
“What’s that now, little man?” Draco asked.  
Hermione gulped again. The noise filled her ears. Something! She had to do something!  
“So Draco - .”  
“I only have a brother. His name is Albus. And he cries, a lot.”  
Draco’s brow twitched. “Who’s the girl?”  
Panic. Sheer frightening panic. It gripped her in paralysis.  
Angelina made a play for the hoop. It went through. Players flew in a flurry right above where Ron stood. The excitement rippled through to his two passengers. The shrill giggle of Jareth was noticeable throughout the crowd.  
Althea expressed her excitement by clapping her hands and shouting, “Mummy! Look, mum. They’re flying!”  
Hermione sucked her breath through her teeth. It was a fallacy to believe Draco might’ve missed it. The fact that his face darkened at that very moment as numbers swirled through his thoughts, adding up the possibilities. His eyes found Hermione’s with startling power. They refused to blink.  
“Can I speak with you a moment?” He spoke through gritted teeth.  
“I really shouldn’t.”  
His hand gripped her arm. He pulled her away from Harry’s company. “How old is that little girl? Or should I say, your daughter?”  
“Draco, I - .”  
“You told me you didn’t want to settle down. Now you’ve got a kid?” He ran a hand through his hair. It tore through the style potion, rendering it useless and limp. “How long did you wait after me? How long until you got pregnant?”  
“Mummy!” Althea shouted through the crowd. Her body writhed against Ron’s arms. Her little hands pushed against his arms with all her might, kicking and whining for her absent mother. It was so unlike her typical behavior that Ron dropped her to the ground in shock. Then she was gone.  
Through the crowd of tall legs, she ran until she reached Hermione’s comforting legs. “Mummy! You left me alone.”  
Her heart will not stop pounding violently. She shakily raised her daughter to her hip. “I’m sorry, baby. I was talking to a friend.”  
“A friend?” Althea repeated.  
Her eyes went to Draco immediately. His harsh scowl was not endearing to her. She cowered into her mother’s scarf for protection.  
Draco stepped forward. “Who is your daddy?”  
Hermione gasped and wretched away. “Honestly! You can’t just ask that. You have no right.”  
“I don’t have one,” her daughter answered.  
It was all those proper manners that Hermione regretted teaching her.  
Draco snorted. “You don’t have…one.” His voice went abruptly quiet. Then his eyes grew twice their size, licked with fury. “How old is she?”  
“That isn’t any of your business.”  
“Oh, I’ll just bet it is. How old is she?”  
A pair of fingers held up from a small hand. “I’m this many.”  
Two.  
“Two. Two years old. Almost puts her at the end of seventh year, wouldn’t you say?”  
Her hands went to grasp Althea’s ears. “Please, Draco. I’d really not like to do this.”  
“I can’t hear!” Althea shouted.  
He stepped closer. His breath on her face. “Tell me, Hermione. Tell me the truth, right here. Right now. Is that my child?”  
She removed her hands from Althea’s ears unable to stand it. Her eyes were cloudy with water as she forced a small at the beautiful face of her only child.  
“Why did you do that?”  
“Just playing with you, baby. Wasn’t that fun?” Hermione said in a light tone.  
Her eyes flashed back to Draco. He was still there. Close. It was clear that in his demeanor he was not going to leave any time soon.  
Althea, true to her nature as a child, was interested in the new person. “Who’s that?”  
“I’m Draco Malfoy. What’s your name?”  
Hermione held her breath. The thought to run away crossed her mind. But the look of determination on his face spoke louder just what he’d do if she did.  
“Althea Rose Granger,” Althea answered.  
His eyes turned cold. Again, his hand gripped Hermione’s bicep. “You named her what we had…” His eyes blinked in rapid succession. “That was the name we picked.”  
“I know,” she answered.  
The news sank in a moment later. A light dulled from his eyes. He was given the news of becoming a father for the first time two years after her birth. All the moments in which the joy of the moment was lost. Time had stolen it.  
Circumstance had stolen it from both of them.  
Hermione, too, was robbed of that joy. It was replaced with fear. Her entire life as a witch was replaced as a mother in the muggle world for her own protection. The start of her young life meant for travel and freedom never began. Instead, her dreams of a life beyond the reaches of London were gone to that of dirty nappies, living alone, recovering from the awful drain that was pregnancy and labor with the only support of her close friends. But not all of them.  
Draco missed from all of that. The man with whom at one point she believed she would marry, who planned their future with surprising clarity, whom supported her wishes for a spread into the world outside of England. Their lives were so entangled within one another’s at one point that she was not a single person with him, but half herself without him.  
Now, they were nothing. There were no letters or well wishes. The silence between them was thicker than the question of what disintegrated their relationship.  
In her heart, she knew that she loved him deep in her soul. It was a piece that would never leave.  
“Althea, can you go back to Uncle Ron, please? I’ll be along in a minute.”  
The girl settled with her feet on the ground. Hermione watched her navigate the crowd back to her space within their family. James and Althea grouped together, hugging one another as they watched the game.  
Hermione wished it could warm her heart. That moment was too cold to enjoy.  
“I have a daughter. You were pregnant. And you chose not to tell me either?” Draco asked. “Is it my punishment, My? Is that it? You kept it so that I might know pain.”  
“No,” she breathed. “No.”  
He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve got a girlfriend, Hermione. We’re expected to be engaged soon. I can’t have a child out of wedlock. It’s unheard of. I can’t.”  
“Pretend then,” was her solution. “Pretend that you know nothing about her. Pretend she is not yours. Pretend it never happened.”  
His brow furrowed. “I can’t do that! I’m not like you. I can’t just throw feelings away that don’t suit.”  
Her finger raised. The threat of tears was imminent. “Don’t.”  
Draco stopped. His tongue fixed behind his teeth.  
There was more he wanted to say. The time to argue about their breakup had never happened. He was left with many things to say to her and no outlet in which to vent. It left a great tension throughout him.  
Still, after a minute, his shoulders relaxed.  
“What are we going to do?” He finally asked in a sharp exhale.  
“Nothing. As you said, there is nothing that you can do without ruining your life.” There was a bitterness on her tongue to give life to those words. Once, she was his life, his everything. And he, hers. The fact that Astoria Greengrass, the witch who slept her way through everything until she got legs wrapped around Draco, was the one he loved burned just a bit too harsh. “Just let it go.”  
His hand held onto her, cinching tighter and tighter. “I can’t just let it go. You are the mother of my child. My child.”  
The waiver in his voice was surprising. He struggled over the word ‘child’ as if the weight of it fully hit.  
Hermione offered a sad face. “In another world, perhaps, it would have changed things.” She sighed. “But here. Here. We have to leave them be.”  
They forget the world around them. People surrounded them on all sides. Their minds lost all sense of time and awareness locked in the gaze of one another. Hermione forgot all at once how to breath. Her chest ached from the lack of air.  
Draco shifted about. His hands kept running through his hair. A hopelessness, a confusion crossed his eyes.  
His words were labored. “Why…why did you have to do this?”  
A habit of self-destruction seemed to blame. The anxiety in vulnerability and the distrust that it bred in her was likely liable.  
Her head dipped low. “Don’t let my mistakes steal your joy, Draco. I bear the weight of it on my own.”  
“But it isn’t just yours. It’s ours. She’s my daughter, too. I might not be in her life, but she deserves to know who I am, what I’d do for her, what she comes from.”  
“Oi Draco!”  
A hand pulled Draco backward. It’s owner? None other than Blaise Zabini.  
His eyes found Hermione’s with a halt in their question. “Wowza, Granger. You look good. No wonder I couldn’t find Draco.”  
It earned him a sharp glance from his friend. “Watch your mouth.”  
Blaise keenly avoided the care. “You doing Pilates? That body is banging. My girl, Millicent. She hit the gym every day of the week and she look like a spaghetti noodle. It makes me want to just feed her and feed her. But you? You’re fed, witch. Well fed.”  
Hermione turned red.  
His antics were something she was once used to back at Hogwarts. But motherhood made her naïve once more. She blushed with every compliment he gave in his over-the-top manner.  
“Hey!” Draco backhanded Blaise’s chest gently. “What’d I say?”  
“Damn, Draco. The witch knows I mean well. Not like you’ve got to worry about her anyway. Got yourself your own witch to manage,” Blaise said. “Granger. For real. Where did you get all that arse?”  
“Muggle designer.” She smirked. “You couldn’t afford it.”  
“I’d just like his address so that I might send him a personal thank you because that thing is a work of art!”  
Hermione allowed herself to be charmed into a chuckle. It felt nice to smile. Too often she felt the taut pull of her face ever downward. The actual tension in her face when she smiled ached after a moment. That was how out of practice she was.  
Draco exhaled through his nose. “Is there a reason you came down here? Tell me it wasn’t just to drool over the witches.”  
Blaise pushed his lips together. “Your mistress in waiting was getting restless without you to fill her cup. She’s threatened to attend Theodore Nott’s party tonight if you weren’t prompt.”  
There was tension between the parties. Blaise was uncertain of why, Hermione thought, because his brow was quizzical to the resistance that Draco exhibited. He kept his gaze level with hers. It was obvious that there was more, much more, he yearned to discuss with her. There was the likelihood that an owl would deliver a letter from him sometime soon.  
She swallowed back the distaste for his whistling master and allowed herself to smile. “It was nice to see you again.”  
Hermione left before he had the chance to reply. Her trust of his control did not need to be tested in such a large crowd. There was a limit in control to what she knew of Draco Malfoy. A surprise heir born outside of Malfoy eye was bound to near crest that very limit.  
The rest of the match was uneventful. Angelina won the game. It was nice to see her afterward and celebrate with a drink before the children whined in their exhaustion. Little eyelids struggled to remain open. James fell asleep across his father’s chest.  
To her surprise, Hermione saw Althea hold Jareth in her arms as they sat on the short grass of the Pitch. She rocked the little boy in her arms. The energy of Jareth Frederick was near spent. It was a thankful end to their outing.  
Althea, herself, was fast asleep before they drove off the lot. The moment her body was secured in through her safety harness, all effort to remain awake evaporated away.  
They found their way home, spent a quiet evening of reading and writing for enjoyment, before they slid between the sheets and fell asleep.  
Dreams were a strange business. They gave life to little desires, forming fears as the mind rested. It had the purpose to relax a mind into a state where insanity was kept at bay. That made the question of nightmares. What was their purpose? If anything, they formed tension rather than serenity.  
Hermione rose in the morning with a tired mind. She dragged her feet to make tea. Eyes burned against the weight of the morning paper.  
Althea rose later that morning dressed in a soft green jumper and grey tights on one leg. The other leg of fabric dragged behind her.  
“Ready for Grandma and Paws, are you?” She chuckled. “It’s still early. You’ve not had breakfast nor a bath.”  
“I want Cookranks.”  
“You mean, Crookshanks.”  
Her parents kept her cat at their house. There was such a demand in Hermione’s schedule that the poor creature needed more love and attention than what was available for a new mother. By the time she gained some semblance of stability, the cat was attached to her father’s lap. It felt wrong to uproot him from his home of so long.  
Althea was drawn to him. He ran away fast, but all his hiding spots were common knowledge, even for a two-year-old. She hunted him as her prey. Her hands petted down his back, up against his ears, constantly touched his tail. More than once, she was reminded to be gentle. The limit of a cat was best learned with caution and not disregard.  
Hermione fed the little girl a breakfast of toast and fruit. She was tossed in a tub full of bubbles and unicorn toys to wash away the banana in her hair and the dark juice of blueberries from inside her ear canal.  
They made it to her parents before ten. Althea rushed in with a smile. It spread to John and Helen Granger when they their only grandchild emerge in their home. John removed his thick rimmed glasses from his face, set his book aside, and wrapped the child in his arms in that bear hug that Hermione remembered from her own childhood.  
The house was the childhood home of Hermione Granger. Her bedroom was still the same as it was when she remained at Hogwarts. The only addition was the small crib in the corner where Althea took up residence when she visited.  
“Morning, love.” Her mother waved Hermione close. “Come for a cuppa before you go.”  
Hermione obliged. She loved teatime with Mum as Althea and Paw-Paw played. It was typically hunt for the cat, but they’d chosen to giggle at the telly.  
“How’s the book coming?”  
A long tea of darkened water poured from the kettle. A smokestack of steam rose up in a beautiful perfume.  
“It’s alright. I know it could be better. I’ve just lost the spark of it,” Hermione said. She plopped a bit of sugar into the cup. “Romance is difficult when you’ve not had any for years.”  
“Thought you went on a date a month ago.”  
“I did.”  
“No such luck?”  
Hermione shook her head. “Not in the slightest.”  
“Things will get better, love. Just you wait and see.” Her mother patted her hand. “We all fall in ruts from time to time. Hell, I nearly quit painting a whole year. I felt I’d done it all. Nothing new left. But then you had Althea, and my inspiration was renewed.” The taut brown curls bounced as her mother nodded. “One new breath of fresh air and you’ll be sorted.”  
Hermione returned to her flat with the hopes that in Althea’s absence, her writing slump might be righted. It was not common for her to struggle. Lately, her plots fizzled out. None of it genuine enough to note. How could she sell the promises of love through struggle and hardship when it had not touched her in such a way? All she found was inspiration from Ron and Lav, Ginny and Harry.  
She tied her hair back to a knot. Strands stuck every which way. The loose trackies hanged from her hips and a cropped jumper with the head of a lion completed the look of ‘hot mess express’ as she tried her hardest to formulate some worthwhile statement within her novel.  
Papers of her ideas were strung up all around her office. There were little sticky notes with hastily written character names, and long sheets of background information and mythology pinned to the various boards around the room.  
It was the room that would have her sent to hospital if anyone ever saw the sheer panic throughout it all.  
Time passed in awkward intervals when trapped in the blank sheet of expectation. Once she glanced at the clock and it only showed a few seconds since she last checked. Then again, it was four hours later.  
She roamed through to the kitchen for a snack. Her stomach growled hungrily below her. It always was forced to take a noisy route if she was to remember that humans were required to eat to live.  
As she’d flicked on the flame to boil the kettle for tea, a strong thud hit against her home’s ward. It was strange. Not many knew where she lived, and the ones who did, were permitted through the barrier.  
A sharp knock came to her front door.  
The slaps of her feet ghosted the way to the front door. The lack of care to her appearance reflected the strife within herself. It was left back within the pages of her novel that she wanted to toss in the bin.  
She opened the door. “Hello?”  
A bright shimmer of platinum hair rose up through the dark of the corridor. The sharp red line beneath his eyes burned.  
“Draco, what are you doing here?”  
His body strolled through the opening, pushed past her obstruction to his path and entered the flat. He was dressed down. It was far more casual than he preferred: the lack of tie, unbutton suit coat, no cufflinks.  
The wide-eyed expression coiled her tension. Something was wrong.  
“When was she born?” He asked. “My daughter. When is her birthday?”  
The door clicked close. She was silent.  
They left things decided that it would be forgotten. She would raise her daughter; he was free to escape to his life at Malfoy Manor with his girlfriend. Things were as they were meant to be.  
“When was she born, Hermione?”  
“January fifth.” Her hollow voice answered. “In the middle of a lovely day.”  
His eyes caught a glimpse of the mantle. A frame of Althea as an infant rested there. She was wrapped in Hermione’s arms with a small round face above three layers of blankets. He touched the photo.  
She moved quietly behind him. Draco refused to acknowledge her there. His eyes stayed even with the frame.  
Hermione wrapped her hands beneath her oxters to keep her hands to herself. “Draco, you’re not yourself.”  
“No,” he echoed. “I’m not.”  
“What has happened?”  
“My life. The life I was supposed to have happened without me there.” His voice was so low, so soft. “All this time. I should have come back. I knew I should have. Sent an Owl or something. Anything would have been better than what I did.”  
“I’m the one who broke up with you, Draco. I pushed you away.”  
There came a quiet still. Their breaths the only sound in the world. Both tortured by the depth of their own mistakes.  
Hermione was responsible for his suffering. The only blame there was to pass along was on her. It was her choice to hide her pregnancy. It was her choice to be too frightened of commitment and the way she felt for him to allow herself happiness. Those were all her doing.  
He nodded. “I know. I knew it was what you were doing. I let you do it anyway.” His throat cleared. “Her eyes… they’re - .”  
“They’re yours,” she confirmed. “I know.”  
His forehead sank to the mantle. The large gasps for breaths tainted the air with his despair.  
“Did you know?” He asked.  
“Know what?”  
“That you were…” his voice trailed off. It went silent for a minute. He gained his breath back. “Pregnant. Did you know when you ended things?”  
Things would have been simpler if she had. Her choice more set in resolve rather than doubt.  
She hated to answer. “No. I did not.”  
He pushed away from the wall. The splintered red in the whites of his eyes, the red ring that encompassed them. He’d been crying.  
“I spent all week thinking of you, Hermione. I couldn’t get you out of my head.” A rising line appeared through his grey orbs. “I tried to explain to Astoria what happened.” That was when a quiver came to his bottom lip. Her eyes grew. Draco did not cry. He was not emotional like that. “I want to be a father. I can’t just abandon my daughter to live without me. That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? It’s my duty. As a wizard. As a Malfoy. My children are expected to be cherished. Spoiled, even.”  
Draco stole a breath. His body went alive with nervous energy. He shifted about. He could not decide what to do with his hands, so they just flittered down the length of his shirt.  
“Astoria, she… she hates you. She can’t stand to hear your name. Even a word of you throws her into a fit,” he explained. “When I told her that you were the mother of my child, she snapped. Told me that if it ever became public, she’d ruin me. That if I thought about seeing you, she’d seduce my father.” He let out a sardonic chuckle. “It did not have the response she wanted.”  
Hermione was uncomfortable. She hadn’t liked the way her body tensed. Everything screamed in anger. Her mind, her heart, the magic in her fingers.  
“She thought the real kicker would be revealing she’d been sleeping with Marcus Flint over the entirety of our courtship.” He tapped his temple. “Then it hit me. How little I cared. I hadn’t cared about what she did with herself, ever. Partying every night, the drugs, the excessive shopping. Not a shred of it mattered. But the other day when Blaise hit on you, I was ready to drive him through the bleeding wall.”  
It was wrong to have that pride in her chest. So wrong.  
Draco Malfoy suddenly turned back to Hermione. His eyes lined with hers. “I’m not over you, Hermione. I’ve been in love with you since the first moment we met, and that’s never going to change. I want my daughter. I want you. I want my life back. This time I know not to take no as an answer. I know you love me.”  
“How would you know that?” Her hug on herself tightened.  
“Because of her name,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t have given her that name, that cherished name we both decided on when we were sixteen years old, if you weren’t.”  
His lips pushed against hers. The salty taste of dried teats upon her tongue. His need seeped through the connection of their bodies. It was all the same as it had been years before. He gripped her waist. She ran her fingers across his jaw.  
Draco pulled back, out of breath. “What do you say? Take me back?”  
Her mind still reeled from their kiss. It was the first touch of intimacy in three years. She was overcome with flooding hormones that all demanded more of him rather than less.  
“Given the choice,” she answered, “your children are the only ones I want.”


	2. Epilogue

The view outside was a slate of pristine green. Sculpted hedges lined the outer reaches of the property. There was an overflowed pond with large, white swans atop the water. Their little cygnets topped the water in a line behind their mother. Always their little peeping on the wind.  
Billowing white curtains moved in the wind through the pair of French doors. Their flutters were soft and gentle. A calm spring day still touched with the chill of winter whilst the sun colored the outdoors with life.   
She gently latched the doors closed. The gooseflesh on her skin covered with a loose cardigan.   
Her soundless steps crossed the bare wood floor. The pale wainscoting against a soft grey wallpaper adorned great paintings of the moon and stars, planets and solar systems. She adjusted the light of the lamp: an entire orb of light spotted with craters and mountains. The dull white haze it offered grew dim.   
The entire room fell to still. It crept through on silent toe.  
Hermione Granger peered over the edge of the cot just one last time before her exit. The small creature with soft, pale cheeks and a pursed pair of lips rested quietly. It did not stir. Infant snores exited the precious upturned nose.  
How much she wanted to gather the baby in her arms. It ached to be apart. Their connection settled them both into a state of contentment, usually sweaty and sore from cuddling so long in the same position, but it was beautiful. That was what it was about. A bond.  
She left her son settled in peace. Her heart filled with sorrow as she navigated back down to their family parlor. Althea was due for a bath and bedtime herself soon. Hermione wanted as much time with her as possible.  
The parlor echoed with the sounds of laughing. There was too much excitement for the peaceful tranquility the evening demanded.   
Hermione cleared her throat when she entered the room. Her eyes found the culprit rather quickly. “Is this your idea of nighttime reading?”  
Draco Malfoy’s smile did not falter. “Storytelling demands a bit of dramatics. Blame the arts, darling.”  
Her brow lifted. “And the swords?”  
In both their hands were fencing foils faced at one another. Althea wore a delighted look of excitement, not a shred of fatigue in her gaze. Draco, himself, breathed hard.  
“We were reenacting the fighting scenes, of course.”  
“Just what kind of story are you reading to her at bedtime?” Hermione crossed her arms.  
It was not truthful to say she was angered by their roughness. Althea and Draco shared a strong bond. Their play was that of best friends. Draco fed into her wildness with that of his own, and she taught him a great deal about himself. Particularly, how exhausting his energy was.  
“The Princess Bride,” Althea answered.  
Draco raised to standing. His hand held his wife’s waist as they shared a gentle kiss.  
“Ooh, my favorite,” Hermione hummed. “I’ll wager you’re at the scene between the man in black and Inigo Montoya.”  
Althea raised her foil to the air. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!”  
Just as she suspected, her daughter was not close to the realm of sleep. She raised her doubtful gaze to her stubborn husband with whom she knew would pretend to have missed the cue.   
Nighttime was a struggle for Draco. He never wanted their children to sleep. He wanted them with him always, playing and exploring, reading and painting. It made the days an endless battle over his control to release their children to their own design.  
He waited all their time since he’d missed so much.  
“Lovely,” Hermione said blandly.  
“Don’t be fooled. She’s a lousy swordsman.”  
“You’re the one who tripped!” Althea exclaimed.  
He wrinkled his nose. “Did not.”  
“Yes. He did. Mum, he tripped over a book as he tried to parry.” An excited grin took hold of her daughter’s face. At seven years old, she was a beauty. Her curls were soft, with fine strands of light brown hair. Two large pale eyes were lively. They danced about as she laughed at the sake of her father’s pride. “I got him right here.” She pointed toward her chest.  
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Traitor. You said you wouldn’t tell.”  
“You’re not surprised, are you, Mum?”  
Hermione shook her head. “Not at all.”  
He gave a feign grimace. “This is how my lovely ladies see me. A big joke!”  
She swallowed her chuckle at his antics. “Thea, take your father’s foil and place it back in the piste, please. I’d hate for him to trip and hurt himself.”  
Althea’s laugh rattled around the room.  
Draco was full of smiles as he settled in the seat beside his wife. His lips planted against hers once more. “How was Valerian?”  
“An angel,” she answered. “He’s fast asleep.”  
“I don’t remember his brother being so easy to get to sleep.”  
She sighed. “Oh, Merlin. He wasn’t. Proteus took ages.”  
“Where is he, anyway?” Draco looked over his shoulder. “I’ve not seen him in a while.”  
“He’s with your father.”  
“That boy is always with him. Forgets he’s got a dad.”  
Hermione smiled. Proteus was their first son. He was born not long after their marriage, perhaps a year after his courtship with Astoria Greengrass was dissolved. It was a rapid-fire swing back into their relationship. Neither wanted to be apart another moment longer than they had to.   
Many questioned why they’d decided to marry so fast. Their first child was already born out of marriage. The damage done. However, Draco disliked the separation he felt in their belonging to another name that was not his. Althea was a Malfoy. He wanted her name to be his, as she was his.   
As expected, Hermione’s fears about marriage resurfaced just as they had in their Hogwarts days before graduation when he mentioned his desire to be engaged.  
It was difficult to overcome the sharp sting of cold feet during their engagement. She felt that climbing hesitation into a secured relationship with him. It was not her love that faltered. No. The act of declaring her infinite love to someone who might not handle it with care brought all sorts of problems to the surface.  
After long suggested therapy sessions, Hermione finally understood why Draco yearned for marriage so badly when it was such an uncomfortable thing for her. He loved her. He wanted the world to know how much respect she had in his heart. Draco was settled in his emotion for her with no doubt in her reciprocal. He was willing to be hurt so long as he got to love her first.   
That was a risk that she long avoided. Heartbreak was the worst emotion a human could endure. The thought of losing him after declaring her love was a sensation she had to avoid. It would end her. Quite literally.   
Their wedding was the happiest day of her life. It was big and ornate. Everyone she ever met was there. Draco was so proud. His chest was puffed in every photograph. Their smiles full of their own excitement as the rest of their lives stared right into their faces.   
Hermione let a sigh of happiness escape her throat. Her only regret, the denial of her emotions back in Hogwarts when she opted for lonely protection than the risk of loss. Draco lost much time with his daughter. They lost their time together. None of it could be returned.  
“Come now.” He grabbed her hand. “We better get going if we’re going to make it.”  
It was the night of an awards ceremony for all the accomplishments in the wizarding world arts. Models and artists of every medium would be there. Photographers, fashion designers, journalists, authors, directors. They would all be present for their chance in the limelight.  
Narcissa Malfoy was set to be in charge. She shooed them away when Hermione had doubts about Valerian. Her bottom lip was left devoid of lipstick from all her chewing.   
Draco rubbed her back. “It’s going to be fine. You’ve earned this. Just enjoy the night. Mother has things handled.”  
“But what if he needs me?”  
“You’re his mum. He’ll always need you,” her husband said lovingly after taking her in his arms. “But what is it that you say to me? ‘We’ve got to learn to let them grow’. Same concept, isn’t it?”  
She shyly agreed. “I suppose that’s true.”  
London had changed. The wizarding world was expanded beyond the confines of what it had been when Hermione was young. More of the wizards and witches leaned into the modern century with curiosity to the muggle life. Tattoos and piercings were more common. Robes were ditched for jeans and leggings. Life before marriage lengthened as the curiosity of the world spread through their minds.  
An uptick in muggle marriages happened at the start of their sixth year. The wizarding world explored their interests as apart of society and found love with those who were non-magical.   
It sparked a new trend of Diagon Alley. A nightclub was a hot new scene. Witches and wizards flocked to the space for late night fun and parties. Flaming alcohol shots, fish-net tights, booming music, neon colored glow sticks, illegal drugs. It flooded through the Alley.   
The awards were reserved within the nightclub. It was the very first time the establishment was chosen as an official place for any sort of event. Older generations hated the place. They protested it is construction. Their hatred of the emerging fashion trends and disregard for traditions made quite an uproar.   
Draco boasted his dark tattoos with pride. In the corner of his mouth rested a black ring pierced through the flesh. His hair shined with product. He wore a taut shirt that hugged the divots of his torso muscles, the sleeves rolled to show off his ink, and black straps of suspenders overtop his shoulders.   
Hermione wore a black lace dress. It was more modest than her husband’s attire. The only racy thing she wore was a pair of bright red lips.   
Still, they looked fatal. Deadly. Stunning.  
Weeks prior, they were offered the opportunity to purchase a table. Most were required tickets to the event, with seats in the back of the building whereas showcased talent was given tables for family and friends to join in their night of celebration. It was an honor just to be nominated.  
Hermione’s most popular novel, Given the Choice, was nominated for best written work of the year. It was based on the events that led her into marriage with Draco. He seemed the cure of her writer’s block. Not long after the reunion, her head was ablaze with words to fill between the covers of a book. A year od editing and proof-reading, coupled with pregnancy and a new marriage to attend to, it was finally released four months before the birth of their third child, Valerian.   
It was coined the Must-Read Book of the season by Witch Weekly. Sales spiked from there.  
Harry and Ginny were already seated at the Malfoy table. They rose with excited smiles and offered embraces as the couple joined them.  
“I can’t believe it.” Ginny wrapped her arms around Hermione’s neck. “You’ve already won. I know it.”  
“Just a formality, I keep telling her,” Draco chimed.  
Ginny smiled. She hugged the man, a gentle kiss given upon her cheek and was back in the eyes of her best friend.   
Harry was up next. He offered his hand out to Draco. “Draco.”  
“Potter.”  
The girls rolled their eyes.   
It was Hermione’s turn to be adorned with his love. Harry pecked a soft kiss against her cheek. “Congratulations, Hermione. We’re all just so proud of you.”  
“Thank you.”  
“The kids just hated staying home tonight,” Ginny said. “I bet Thea was heartbroken too.”  
“She wanted to be here.” Hermione nodded.  
A waiter with a tray full of champagne flutes appeared. They were dispersed a drink.   
It was blissful, the champagne. So crisp and smooth.   
“Spared no expense with these, have they?” Harry eyed the glass through his round spectacles.  
The sipped on the wonderful alcohol and ate the refreshments provided with comfort. It was nice to have adult time with their friends, rather than having to correct children and feed infants in between statements.   
Time passed on. The two couples wondered where their third was. Neither had seen Ron and Lavender yet.   
The dark room was lit with lights upon a shiny stage. The private tables were front row. Lines of stadium seating littered behind them into sheer darkness. There were guests already in their seats. The whites of the eyes or the white of the teeth, the only cut through incredible shadow.  
Through the aisle was a mad dashing blonde woman. Her long curls down her chest bounced like little springs as she made her way toward the tables. She was stopped by an usher. He asked for her ticket.   
The woman wore a long yellow shawl against her bare shoulders. A long gown down the course of her curvy length. It was difficult to make out her features through the dim.   
A mic check appeared on stage. The sound of the commentator’s voice carried through.  
The usher allowed the witch to pass through. Her eyes scanned through the crowd to find her seat.  
Suddenly the familiarity hit her. “Lavender,” Hermione whispered. Her arms waved at their table.  
The light of recognition hit the witch’s eye. She dashed over shielding her face from the other tables as she passed.  
There was a low hum of a greeting throughout the table.  
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Ron got ill at the last minute. I wasn’t sure I was even going to make it.”  
That was disappointing. Ron was her best friend. She wished he was there.   
“What’s he sick with? Because we just saw him yesterday.” Harry was concerned.   
Draco, Harry and Ron all worked as Aurors together in the Ministry. They practically worked on top of one another in their tiny cubicle offices.  
“Food poisoning,” Lavender answered. “I told him that those sausages didn’t look right.”  
“Sausages?” Ginny snorted.  
“From a cart.” Lavender grabbed one of the champagne flutes and tossed it back. “He barfed all over my dress and himself. It was a bloody mess.”  
Hermione gave a small, defeated smile. “Well at least you made it.”  
Attention was drawn to the front of the club.  
“Allow us to begin the first ever, Wizard’s Art Awards. Or W.A.A. as we’ve taken to calling it.” The commentator on stage announced.  
Harry chuckled. “Waa. We’re at the waa.”  
Ginny shook her head with a small smile. “Such a child.”  
It was fun to watch all the year’s works be listed. So many witches and wizards were nominated for their contributions. Hermione had almost forgotten they were there because she was one of those people. She just liked to watch all the changing elements of the magical world be displayed for the excitement of their peers.   
There were many categories in the community that had not existed before.  
Fashion modeling was a new practice. It was still fresh. The market of what a magical designer might want as their model varied upon the thing they crafted. It made a wide array of models nominated.   
One name they had not expected was the sneered name of girlfriend’s past: Astoria Greengrass.  
There was a wave of eyes that turned to Draco and Hermione in their seats, the awkward display of their relationship after a nasty publication war between Astoria and the couple. Draco gulped his alcohol in sudden surprise.  
Hermione patted his thigh. “Water under the bridge. That was years ago.”  
“She’s not the type to forgive and forget.”  
Their horror was realized when Astoria won the award for Rising Star, the new model award. She mounted the stage in a glittering gown crafted entirely of rare gemstones. The long train scratched the floor of the stage as she walked.  
The long beautiful strands of blonde hair were dyed a soft pink. Dense mink eyelashes rested atop her small, blue eyes.  
“Oh, good Godric,” Ginny muttered.  
It was a new height of overdramatic. The event was not open to the public, but not as elegant as Astoria was dressed for. It was a nightclub that was bound to have traces of cocaine on the loo.  
Hermione did have to admit, through her teeth, that Astoria was exceptionally beautiful. Too bad it didn’t sink to the insides of her personality.  
The commentator handed off the microphone. Astoria’s long nails wrapped around the body of it, fluttered her eyelashes (as if the whole room hadn’t noticed) and smiled.  
“When I was told that would be featured on the cover of _Who’s Next_ the premier witch magazine of the entire world, I was so excited. My designer, Bao, made sure to give me the best thing she had. It was a fun experience. I’ll never forget it. Gah! What a time. The guys - the photographers had so much fun. We made it a party at the shoot. Someone even snuck in some flaming shots to really get the blood going.” It was given in such a casual manner that there were members of the crowd that shifted in their seats, confused by the acceptance speech. “I’d like to thank my husband. Yes, we just got married a few days ago. Look for the spread in the next edition of _Witch Weekly_.” Her laugh pulsated in Hermione’s ears. “Thank you, Cormac for doing all that you do for me and never trying to sell our story so that you can gain some kind status. Because unlike other people, you’ve rocked my world.”  
Lavender’s drink spilled over after she gasped so hard.  
Draco grumbled a low growl. “I’ll kill her.”  
Of course, the room was left in a dense cloud of shock as Astoria left the stage. Sparse applause the only solitude to the burn of Hermione’s embarrassment.   
“Who’d have thought a dress like that could hide a massive set of bullocks,” Ginny commented.  
“I saw that spread,” Lavender fumed. “It wasn’t even that good. Who has walking swan ice sculptures? All they did is drip water everywhere and trip up Cormac’s grandmother.”  
Hermione shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”  
“I should go over and say something to her.” Draco started to rise from his seat.   
“No,” Hermione murmured. “Just let it go.”  
The night carried on. Not without a lot of tension, but it continued.   
It finally arrived at the author awards. Hermione was listed as a nomination as Author of the Year. A beam of spotlight shined down from the ceiling. She waved toward the crowd as they gave a rumbling storm of applause.  
It had not sunk in just how momentous the honor was until her name was read.   
Draco was so thrilled. He jumped out of his seat and wrapped her in a taut hug. “I’m so proud of you.” He had to shout over the booming sound of clapping.  
She gave Lavender, Ginny, and Harry quick pecks on the cheek before she ascended the stage to accept her award.  
The award was heavy. Her name etched in the bottom. The solid gold shined in the light of the stage where tens of spotlights all ignited the one spot she stood.  
She shook the commentator’s hand. “Congratulations, Mrs. Malfoy,” she said.  
Hermione was so overcome. “Thank you.”  
The microphone was placed in her grip. A power, like her pen, not suspected within her grasp.  
“Thank you. Thank you.” Her voice echoed through the room. The applause started to die down. “I’d like to thank everyone for their support and love as I went through the process of writing, _Given the Choice_. It was the course of years that poured into those words. I’d like all my fans to know I am greatly honored to have been their favorite.” She paused. The polite clapping eventually stopped. “There is one person who deserves a special mention for this award. It might not come as a shock. They’ve been the one who provided all the good material to make the book a #1 Best Seller for little over twenty-six weeks now. They’ve handed me a relationship that is perfect and full of love, as many of you know, I just gave birth to my third child. Yes, I’ve been blessed by this one person’s actions.”  
Her heels clicked to the edge of the stage. Just in front of her, below, sat Cormac McLaggen and his new bride, Astoria. Astoria’s eyes burned with fury as Hermione looked her square in the eye.  
“You, Astoria are my honorable mention.” It earned a fair number of gasps. “Without your selfish disregard of my husband, I might not have ever been where I am now. So to you, this award truly goes to. You’ve given me a husband, a novel and a beauty award seeing as you’re the prettiest model in London, but I’m the witch that stole your man.”  
She had a bit of regret when the entire nightclub descended into chaos. There was much noise that stopped the flow of the awards. Guests had to be returned to their seats before the rest of it could continue.  
Astoria stomped her feet in a tantrum. Her angry voice was lost to the sound of laughing and cheering from the back seats.  
Hermione returned to her table proud as ever. She set the award in the center for all her friends to see.  
Ginny and Lavender fawned over the golden award. Their fingers dragged across the smooth surface, already allured by the touch of the precious metal.  
Draco wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Bit different than I remember that speech going.”  
She smirked. “I made some last-minute changes.”


End file.
